9.25.2006

A small group of people gathered around Ernest. "Everyone," said Ernest, "this is a hole in the ground.""Why, it's a hole in the ground," stated Mrs. Chainsaw cheerfully."Don't need no damn hole in the ground," grumbled Mr. Garden Hose."Oh, I beg to differ. There is a wide variety of uses for a finely dug hole in the ground," mused Professor Leaf Rake."I saw on the TV that they's dug a real big hole in the ground over in some town somewhere," said someone."Well, it is just a hole in the ground," replied Ernest.

The small group of people swelled until it was a crowd of people lined around the hole. "Whatcha gonna do with it," asked Mr. Oil Stain."I'll give yer two bits fer'it," offered Mr. Garden Hose.

Sleeping. Sleeping in a car. Sleeping in a car driving into another car. Dying in a car. Careening into traffic. Careening into a canyon of surprised armadillos. Armed children roaming the backwater spaces of America. Dusty teeth and swollen tongues. Sleeping in the staring sun under a black tarp. A cloud of flies under a black tarp in the staring sun. Hordes of flies in a dying canyon under the careful eyes of daisies. Sleeping. Sleeping in the dust and daisies, roaming the backwater spaces of America. The pope is in the desert searching for his teeth. Barking dogs ask why the clouds fill the sky with questions. A child sleeps in a car surrounded by sagebrush and morning kildeer. On the dash, a jar of strawberry jelly and a plastic spoon.

A can of soup grows in Brooklyn. A can of soup lines up to join the Army. A can of soup practices the piano. A can of soup speaks to the Rotary Club. A can of soup comes home from war. A can of soup paints a self portrait. A can of soup shoots its brains out. A can of soup ice skates in Central Park. A can of soup gets the sniffles. A can of soup takes a job on Wall Street. A can of soup takes night classes. A can of soup gets married. A can of soup celebrates his bar mitzvah. A can of soup pilgrimages to Mecca. A can of soup walks on the moon. A can of soup suffers from arthritis. A can of soup purses its lips. A can of soup wears a top hat. A can of soup votes Republican. A can of soup marches against the war. A can of soup rusts on a sunny day. A can of soup has children. A can of soup reads the newspaper. A can of soup stares out the window. A can of soup dies, dreaming of all the lovely soup cans in the world.

Ham bones, pink ham, canned ham, hams across America, President George W. Ham, ham shank, spiral ham, Boston Ham Sox, Ham I am, ham-a-rific, ham-tastic, ham-diddly-doo, how much is that ham in the window?, I left my ham in San Francisco, there is no ham there, the cow jumped over the ham, eating her curds and ham, ham radio, ham television, 50 Ways to Leave Your Ham, hamster, ham on toast, ham sandwich, ham-faced, Ham Flakes, tie a ham around the old oak tree, the Star Spangled Ham, put a ham in your butt, Elvis Presley-shaped ham, The Ham Also Rises, ham trading cards, 1965 Pontiac Ham, the Great Wall of Ham, ham on a stick, the Grateful Ham, ham-flavored M & M's, hamhead, ham-fisted, no sense crying over spilt ham, ham-scented toilet paper, ham water, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Hams, Mr. Gorbachev--tear down this ham, ham leather, get off my ham, gee your ham smells terrific, we have nothing to fear but ham itself, World War Ham, No Ham Zone, no ham no foul, start spreadin' the ham. Ham, can you hear me?

I have no sausages for you to fry, said the old librarian. But is this not the place to fry sausages, asked the bewildered gardener.No, it is not.Oh.It is a gas station. Would you like a corn dog?A gas station?Yes, a gas station. The library has closed and converted into a gas station. The fruit leather is where the reference desk was once located.What about a place for frying sausages, asked the bewildered gardener.Shh, said the old librarian.

Hey, this is Hank "The Birdmangler" Buttpinscher, Jr., again. My court-appointed attorney, Frank Linmint, just called (Why does he have a phone in solitary confinement, you ask? Hmm, good question. Another good question, smart guy, would be how not one but two guys came to be known as "Birdmangler"). Anyway, to get to the gist of the matter, I'd like to say my last post was for entertainment purposes only, just like a big 'ol ceramic tobacco pipe, and in no way should anyone, especially Sheriff Jimbo Joe Jake Jackson Jones, Jr., take that post for serious. Neither should he or some group of vigilante types or a troop of boy scouts or other nosy people like that crime-solving priest Mr. Cunningham go on a digging trip behind my garage under the large pile of grass clippings, especially since my case is bein' appealed cuz of a total lack of evidence.

You know, being on the "inside" sure makes a guy realize all the stuff he takes for granted on the outside. For one thing, when your rear itches here and you reach inside your britches to take care of it, the guards think you're pulling a knife out of your rear. Then the next thing you know you're in a headlock and your eyes are full of pepper spray and a guard pulls your right arm behind your back in a half nelson and your 5% loss of motion in your shoulder becomes a 10% loss of motion and then you start crying and all the guys are snickering and hooting and hollering and calling you bad names you don't want to repeat like "The Birdmangler" is a big fat dingleberry or "The Birdmangler" is quite the silly goose, and then you wish you could kill again, just take guys like they're your neighbor wife's husband and run them over with your tractor and then hack them to pieces and bury them behind your garage under the large pile of grass clippings.

Why, this is a brilliant kind of nonsense, said the student to the professor. The professor--a motorcycle enthusiast salmon with shiny, silvery scales, wavy hair, gold tooth, and a monocle, replied, yes, this is a brilliant kind of nonsense, thank you for noticing, now toot toot off you go get off my lawn do your homework and memorize the periodic table of contents may be under pressure before tomorrow I will assign more homework and not tell you anything about it, OK? This is a brilliant kind of nonsense, said the student to the professor.

The family sat around the breakfast table eating ostrich eggs and pickle relish. "Please pass the used motor oil," asked Mother. "Please drown yourself in a vat of boiling monkey urine," said Sister to Brother. "I'm rubber and you're glue," said Grandmother to Pasty, the family's pet fly strip. "Are you quite finished with my eggs," asked the annoyed ostrich. Father sat in his customary seat, reading the backs of cereal boxes and sobbing. "The puzzles, the puzzles," he muttered, but no one paid attention.

Some time later, in a terrible fit of anger, Pasty ran away from home in a violent windstorm, promising to send postcards back home to her "family of schmucks," yet she was blown into a cinder block wall at a nearby gas station where she stuck to an ancient metallic sign advertising Phil's Soothing Foot Wart Pads. There she stayed, in good weather and bad, thinking of Father sobbing, his chest heaving, the end of his nose dripping snot.

Not more than five minutes later the hitchhiker realized that he needed to use the facilities. He might have considered relieving himself behind the dumpster, but the last time he tried that the owner of Bud's Gas Station Bistro and Patisserie in some effete town somewhere shot his shotgun straight in the air and told the hitchhiker to "git." This is how the hitchhiker came to be in this place leaned up against a cinder block wall next to a dumpster at a gas station in some town somewhere that he can't find on a map and probably can't remember how to spell, like Coeur d'Alene or Hopscotch or Truth or Cosequences or Elko or Shit on a Stick, Saskatchewan. Gathering his courage the hitchhiker walked into the gas station mini mart grabbing his crotch and dancing and hopping up and down. "Need the key for the restroom, please. Ooh, is that a real monocle?"

Many months later the hitchhiker found himself in a gas station deep in the woods of some place he'd never heard of and couldn't find on a map. He bought a bottle of cold root beer and leaned up against a cinder block wall next to a dumpster. It was summer and the rancid trash, full of paper pop cups, hot dog wrappers, and soiled diapers attracted a melange of flies. "Melange," thought the hitchhiker, rolling the word across his tongue like a sweet, after dinner liquer. "Melange." I was there a few months ago, some tired old town stuck in the hot hills of Georgia. "No," it was some guy I met in a phone booth twenty years ago frantically looking for a dime. The hitchhiker gulped his root beer, belched, and thought of his beloved, dead wife.